


Clean Up

by RideBoldlyRide



Category: RWBY
Genre: Sorry guys, This isn’t a ship story., its angsty aftermath, just more pain for Qrow, not a fix it fic, tw:blood, why can’t Qrow have nice things?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RideBoldlyRide/pseuds/RideBoldlyRide
Summary: ****Serious spoilers for Vol 7 Ch 12. ****Qrow is on the run, but takes refuge, takes stock, and takes time to care for his traitorous weapon.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Clean Up

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to repeat this from the tags. This ISN’T a ship story. This IS a spoiler for ch.12. This IS angsty. This DOES deal with blood.
> 
> Felt the need to write this after yesterday’s crap storm that’s main target was Qrow. The poor man needs some serious hugs and crying it out.
> 
> This is probably one of my shortest works, but I think it says all that needs to be said currently.

_ It-it wasn't me. I didn't- I  _ couldn't _ - _

The mantra beat in his skull. Tundra winds whipped past him, as he flew. Softly, like a whispering demon, it's white words slipped into his ears.

_ Liar. Liar. Murderer. Liar. _

He flew faster, lower, harder. He flew with reckless abandon, but his past was quicker. Years of good, of fighting his upbringing, of trying to save people, of offsetting his own semblance… it all culminated in this night.

It wasn't the first time he had been a fugitive. Innately, he headed to the most underpopulated sections left in Mantle. An empty apartment on an upper floor had left a window open, and Qrow took advantage of it. Slipping in, he regained his form, kneeling in the middle of the empty room. 

Moving to rise to his feet, he found his legs unwilling to support him. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he rose to his feet, fighting back the tears. Reaching the nearest wall, he leaned against it, sinking back to the floor. He took in the room. 

Peeling wallpaper, a dusty scattering of trinkets, worn carpet, and an old mattress shoved up against a different wall. The apartment had not been used in quite a while- long before the evacuation. Nobody was going to come looking here anytime soon.

He turned to take in the rest of the apartment, but the motion upset the balance of Harbinger at the small of his back. With a start, he froze. Trembling hand, the veteran huntsman reached for his weapon. Even as he brought it round, he felt his gut wrench. The gore had been fully encompassing. 

With the opposite hand, he retrieved a cloth from his pocket. It had been used to clean Harbinger many times over the years. But not to wipe away the life of a friend. 

Swallowing hard, he began to work at the general cleaning, and practice slowly let him numb out the thoughts of… 

He bit his tongue to keep his thoughts at bay. In the dim light, he squinted in the darkness, working at the intricate lines of scrollwork along the spine of the blade. Catching his reflection in the broad blade's surface, he shirked away from the man he saw. 

Dark circles below his bloodshot eyes told the story of exhaustion. The night had been so. godsdamned. long. He had been tired from the moment he had stepped foot into the Schnee mansion, and in that fateful airship, he had fought hard to just keep awake let alone diligent.

Then his comm had gone off. In a flash, the rest of the night, the fights, the crash, the  _ blood _ . And laced through it all, he could only hear that psychopath's cackle. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wipe it from his mind, but in the absence of sight, the faunus' voice only grew louder. 

In frustration, he shoved his weapon from off his lap, opening his eyes to watch it skitter across the floor. The tears started to burn behind his eyes again, and he moved to crush them with his palms. Even through a watery gaze, he spotted his own hands. Blood.

It had been worked deeper into the small cracks and scars of his hands, into the nailbeds of his fingers. Anxiety gripped his heart, and he shot to his feet, desperate to find the nearest sink. 

A few moments later, he sat hunched over a sink, scrubbing at his hands. He wasn't sure when the tears had finally begun, but he stopped trying to fight them. It seemed to the huntsman that even as he scrubbed at his hands, more kept appearing. So he scrubbed and washed and scratched and clawed to try to make it stop. 

As though speaking a prayer, he whispered through the hiccuping sobs that began to wrack him.

"I'm so sorry, Clover. Why… why wouldn't you just listen… I'm so so sorry…"

  
  



End file.
